


"Forget-me-not"

by unbelievable2



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen, Sentinel Thursday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 10:08:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10384290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unbelievable2/pseuds/unbelievable2
Summary: On a Sunday afternoon in Spring, Jim Ellison goes out to Home Depot, and doesn’t come back.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A story written for Sentinel Thursday, the prompts being #573 - "forget" and #141 - "danger"

On a Sunday afternoon in Spring, Jim Ellison goes out to Home Depot, and doesn’t come back.

He doesn’t come back.

Blair is in the basement, trying to reason with the chuntering, elderly washing machine which seems to be developing some kind of white-goods dementia. Jim puts his head around the door, and shouts:

“Chief, I’m going to get more wood-screws. The ones we have aren’t long enough to hold those shelves.”

Blair, at a crucial point in his fathoming of the washer programming, waves him away, so Jim clatters up the stairs again, and doesn’t come back.

Jim doesn’t come back.

Six hours later, Blair has been to every Home Depot outlet and hardware store he can think of, looking for Jim, with no success. Jim’s cell-phone number is “unobtainable”. His father snappily informs Blair over the phone that he hasn’t seen Jim in weeks. Simon Banks has broken off his own Sunday liberty, at first grudgingly and soon, with increasing concern, to alert all Police Departments in Cascade, all hospitals and doctors’ surgeries. All morgues…

“Could he have zoned?” he asks Blair once again. Blair, who has been ringing up every name in Jim’s address book, male and female, is wild-eyed with worry.

“Simon, he went for wood-screws! If he zoned, it would have been in the wood-working aisle. We’d _know_ by now!”

Twelve hours after Blair waved Jim away, a PD patrol car spots Jim’s truck in a beach parking lot along the coast south of Cascade. But Jim is not there.

~ ~ ~

Blair paces Simon’s office; Simon watches from behind his desk.

“And you double-checked all his cases?” Blair asks again, turning suddenly to face Simon. “Cases before my time, I mean? If it was a grudge, it could go back years.”

“Every single one is being checked, Sandburg,” Simon repeats, firmly but gently. “There have been no threats, no recent releases of convicted felons with a link to Jim. We’ve received no messages, or demands, or anything that might have a connection with his disappearance.”

“And when will Forensics be done with the truck?”

“I’ve told you already. They’ll be working carefully, and we’ll know when they know.

“Why can’t I see the truck?”

“We’ve been through this, Sandburg. Come on! You still aren’t a cop, this isn’t a case with Jim. You’re too close to things…”

“I could spot things about the truck! You know I could! And anyway, what are you saying? That I’m somehow involved with his disappearance?” Blair’s voice is getting harder, deeper, darker; Simon hears a violence within, barely controlled. There is a quiet knock at the door, and Joel pokes his head into the office.

“You wanted me, Simon?”

“Yeah, Joel. Can you take Sandburg to one of the interview rooms, and get a statement from him?”

Blair looks at Simon slack-jawed for a second, then his eyes shoot daggers.

“Okay, if that’s how you wanted to play it. _Captain…”_

Simon watches his departing back, and sighs heavily.

~ ~ ~

“And you hadn’t had an argument?” asks Joel.

“Am I under suspicion? Really?”

“You know this is routine, Blair. Just eliminating things; people. Seems like no one saw either of you from Friday afternoon till you called Simon on Sunday evening. I guess you can account for your whereabouts?”

Blair fights to keep his voice even.

"We were having a Loft weekend. Doing improvements, Jim putting up better shelves, sorting out a load of junk that we could recycle. We nipped out to shop for groceries late Saturday – so there will be witnesses there - but otherwise we were just at home. Oh, and we had a mound of washing to do, on account of the hours Jim's been pulling here, _y'know?_ Yeah, there was an argument. I was arguing with the washing machine which is on its last legs. He said he was going out for wood-screws. I was up to my neck in dirty clothes and barely answered. I mean…” He stops for a moment, and draws a deep breath. “I mean, it's not I like I thought that would be last time I saw him.”

Joel looks at him kindly.

"And after that, Blair?”

“After that, what do you think? I ran around downtown Cascade, looking for him. No sign, Joel! No sign! What the hell’s happened?” He buries his face in his hands; Joel looks on, his face troubled, and then he reaches out to pat a shoulder.

The door is yanked open without ceremony, and Simon strides in, a folder his hand. Blair looks up.

“The forensics report?” he asks. “Can I see it, please?” Simon sighs heavily once again.

“There's nothing for you to see, Sandburg. They went over the truck with the fine-tooth. I spoke to the guys down there and they've been especially thorough, it being one of our own. I know they've done a good job.”

Blair looks at Joel, who remains mute. He turns back to Simon.

“But…? There’s a _‘but’_ here, isn't there?”

“But they've found nothing suspicious, Sandburg. Nothing that would indicate foul play - nothing untoward seems to have happened. No blood, no tissue, no signs of a struggle, no gunshot residue, no trace of anything like that. Just the regular Ellison truck.”

“Finger-prints?”

“No fingerprints, except Jim’s. The truck is clean, Sandburg.” Blair is frowning.

“Seriously? _Only_ Jim's finger-prints? _Only_ his?

With an expression that shows it’s against his better judgement, Simon opens the folder and points at a paragraph.

“ _'Latent finger-prints verified to be those of Detective James Ellison’_ ,” he quotes, and Blair's expression brings him up short.

“Simon, I was in that truck on Saturday evening. We drove out to get some late groceries; I just told Joel. Bettamart on West and Bay. We were joking as usual, and I was messing around with the glove-box because Jim was swearing that I had stolen his second-best shades, and I told him they were in the glove-box. I was trying to find them.”

Simon and Joel are staring at him.

“That's – what? – fifteen hours before Jim went to Home Depot. My prints would still be all over that truck. Why are Jim's the only ones?”

~ ~ ~

Blair is back at the PD within three hours of being told to go home and rest. He storms into Simon's office, and Simon quickly kills the phone-call he's on, and stares him down.

"Sandburg, just let us do our job…" he begins, but Blair interrupts.

"What was the odometer reading?"

"What?"

"The odometer reading? How many miles had the truck done? It'll be in the forensics report."

"What will that show us we don’t know already? He drove to the beach…"

"Listen, Simon. Jim would have filled up with gas on his way home on Friday night. He always does. Just like he always resets the odometer straight afterwards so he can see what the gas consumption is like, and also for PD expenses claims. We went out to Bettamart and back again on Saturday – that's all. Sunday afternoon he drove out to Home Depot. How many miles should he have done?"

Simon picks up the folder. Blair notices it’s on his desk in a prominent position.

"A hundred-and-nine point six miles," he says, after a moment's pause. Blair's face goes completely white.

"Jesus," says Blair, his voice barely audible. "Jesus…"

Simon closes the folder with a slap of paper and shoves it into a desk drawer.

"You said it yourself, Sandburg. There are any number of hardware depots he could have gone to…"

"Not that many," snaps Blair, like a whip-crack. "Believe me, I've counted them. And even if he did, then what? He was so depressed he couldn't find the right length of wood-screw, he felt he had to drive to the beach, and - what…? - drown himself out of sheer despair at the inadequacies of Cascade's home improvement retail sector?"

"Your sarcasm is out of place here, Sandburg," growls Simon.

"Really? And how out-of-place is your lack of professionalism?"

 _"Excuse me?"_ Simon's voice is dangerously heavy

"Jesus, Simon, do I have to spell this out for you? Really? Are you a cop or what?"

Simon rises to his full height behind his desk, his expression thunderous; Blair stares back at him, unabashed.

"Because the way a cop would look at it," continues Blair, his voice now hard and cold, "is that someone drove that truck to the beach. _After_ it had been somewhere way out of Cascade to be professionally wiped down for any prints that could incriminate whoever took Jim. And you know where this is pointing, don't you? No mob hit, no criminal vendetta is going to take this kind of trouble to off Jim, or kidnap him."

"Sandburg," warns Simon, through gritted teeth, "you're being paranoid about this…."

"Bull- _SHIT_ , Captain!" spits Blair. "He went for wood-screws! He was coming back! If you can't see a conspiracy here then you don’t rate that desk you sit behind. Or is it that you’ve already had your instructions on this one? Huh?"

Shortly after this, and other words, Blair is asked to leave. He is escorted from Major Crime by an embarrassed Henri Brown and Joel; Security are instructed he is no longer to have access to the building.

~ ~ ~

"I take it, you deny these allegations?" asks the Chancellor. Blair is sitting across from her desk, stony-faced.

"Of course I do," he says, his voice unnaturally calm. "Because they aren't true. You know that, don't you? You just don’t care."

"I care for the reputation of Rainier, Mr Sandburg. A reputation you have done quite a lot to diminish in various ways during your time here, as I see it. Whereas the two individuals who have made these accusations are model citizens, and are able to provide a good deal of corroborating evidence to their claims."

"I like how there's one of each sex," says Blair, with a smile that is a baring of his teeth. "You know, covering the bases. That's thorough."

"I don't know what you're inferring here, Mr Sandburg." The Chancellor's face is wooden.

"Oh, you know perfectly well. So, what's the plan? You take me to court?" The Chancellor purses her lips.

"No, Mr Sandburg. Quite simply, on the evidence we have, I am authorised by the University Council to terminate your position here, with immediate effect. Our personal conduct regulations allow us to do this, as you well know. This time there really is no coming back, I am happy to say. You have sunk very low indeed, and I have no intention of your causing any further trouble for this institution."

Blair nods, more to himself than to the Chancellor.

"I can take _you_ to court," he notes.

"By all means. But I can assure you, if you do, you will never work again in any academic institution in this country. Moreover, I have authority to deploy all the resources I need to ensure the case is entirely proven against you. After all, we have the evidence, including biological evidence,"- her lips twist in a _moue_ of disgust – "which will be incontrovertible."

"Oh, yeah," says Blair, getting up from the chair heavily, as if his limbs don't work properly, " _'evidence'_. That's a doozy. I'm betting it's gonna be real good evidence, right? Perfect, in fact."

~ ~ ~

Jack Kelso meets him in the park, as arranged. Kelso is somewhat late, and Blair sits staring at the lake in front of his bench until Kelso speaks.

"Blair, you look like hell."

"Yeah," returns Blair, mildly. "Lookin' good yourself, Jack. Thanks for asking."

"No, seriously," persists Kelso, wheeling his chair closer to inspect the other man. "You look terrible. Are you sleeping?" He spots a bulging backpack under the bench, and reconsiders. "Where exactly are you sleeping?"

"Currently, in my car, though even that might be temporary if I can't find the cash to pay for some essential repairs."

"You're out of the Loft?" Kelso looks genuinely shocked. Blair nods.

"I had a visit from the Ellison family's solicitors. Either I got out, or they forcibly evicted me. I have no legal right there, of course. I never had a tenancy agreement. I could take 'em to court to argue the toss, but I have an inkling they would win. You know, influence and the like, plus I haven't money to even think about a lawyer."

"The University went through with it?"

"Oh yeah, that was two months ago. _'Go away, we don’t pay'_. Been camping, daytimes, in the City Library. I can at least write letters, and get in touch with Congressmen, and press for investigations. Yadda, yadda, yadda."

"You're not getting anywhere?" Blair gives Kelso an appraising look.

"Like you don't already know that, Jack? Come on, how long have we been friends? I was just hoping… hoping… that you could give me a little glimmer here. A little bit of information, maybe. Just some clue I'm not barking up the wrong tree. I mean, I damn well know I'm right, but it would be such a help to have something to back up what I suspect."

"Blair…."

"So have you?" Blair looks up, and the entreaty and pain in his eyes is difficult for Kelso to see, so he turns away and looks at the lake.

"Blair, I'm really not that close to this sort of stuff nowadays. By personal choice, remember? I've haven't carried on with those old connections."

"Really? You're telling me that you don’t still have someone you could call? Someone who’s the same era as you? Who may have heard even the tiniest thing? Jack, please, I know I don’t have any favours to call in, but just for old times' sake - this one thing? Just one phone call. Please?"

"Look, Blair, I know why you're doing this, and I know how hard you're working on it, but trust me, you're just likely to get yourself into more trouble. You realise that, don’t you? These aren't people to mess with. You should stop this crusade. It's not going to get you anywhere but…" He clears his throat. "It's just not going to get you anywhere. You need to forget it." 

Blair remains silent; the sense of grief is palpable. Kelso reaches into his jacket and takes out his wallet. Blair's face is turned again towards the lake, as if he already knows that nothing is going to come out of this meeting, so Kelso quietly extracts some notes from his wallet and reaches down to stuff them into the front pocket of the backpack. If Blair notices, he doesn’t say anything.

"Look after yourself, Blair," says Kelso. Blair nods, still staring at the water.

"You got it," he replies.

The next time Blair rings Kelso's office, a woman answers and puts him on hold until the line cuts out. He rings again, a little later, but this time all he hears is dead air.

~ ~ ~

Blair is working in the Coffee-break Café, mopping the floors, when he hears the item on the radio.

 _"Cascade PD confirm that the body recovered by a Coastguard patrol from Cascade Bay in the early hours of this morning is that of Detective James Ellison of its Major Crime Department…"_ – Blair's mop falls from his frozen hands – _"who disappeared in the South Beach area six months ago, leaving his vehicle abandoned on the shore. Although the Coroner has not yet given his verdict, a PD source has disclosed that Detective Ellison, a former Cop of the Year, had been suffering from depression at the time he disappeared. His next of kin have been informed."_

Marty, who owns the Coffee-break, gives Blair the rest of the day off, out of respect. Blair's not there the next day, though, so Marty has no choice but to fire him.

~ ~ ~

When the coroner's report is published, Blair ambushes Simon on his way into the PD early one morning. Simon takes one look at the dishevelled, bearded face in front of him, and the clothes hanging off a gaunt frame, and takes Blair to a burger joint, even though it's 6am. He buys a huge breakfast for them both. Blair nods at it and drinks the coffee. They sit quietly for a while, then Blair opens his mouth.

" _'Suicide whilst the balance of his mind was disturbed'_ ," he intones. "That's what I hear." Simon nods.

"That's the verdict, yes," replies Simon; he waits.

"You know how wrong that is, don’t you?" Blair looks up at him; it's a dispassionate gaze, as though Blair is logging every facet of Simon's appearance and, through that, his character, and is assessing its worth.

"What I know," says Simon, heavily, "is that a badly-decomposed body was pulled out of the water, way down the coast. DNA evidence says that it's Jim's, and there were some personal effects with it - watch, clothing and so on – that back the ID up, too."

"Of course they do," replies Blair, very quietly. "What does Dan Wolf say?"

Simon clears his throat and looks down at the table, and the congealing breakfasts.

"Dan Wolf hasn't seen the remains. The PD didn't get them. The body was taken to a naval facility near Tacoma. It's going to be released to the family for burial later this week."

"Why not the PD? Why the Navy?"

"Do you really need to ask that question, Blair? After all the work you've been doing, stirring up that hornets' nest? You know what all this is about."

"You think they still have him?" Blair is quietly calm, as if nothing can touch him now. Simon sighs.

"I have no idea. I guess it's fifty-fifty either way. But if that body is Jim's, then the condition points to death being… being some considerable time ago. So…."

"Either a diversion, or a closing of the case, huh?" Blair shows no emotion.

"One way or the other, it's an interpretation, sure," replies Simon. They are silent again for a while, and Simon is suddenly filled with a premonition that this is the last time he will see Blair.

"It’s time you forgot all this, Blair," he says suddenly. "You're an irritation to them. You could be easily got out of the way, you know that? You're pretty invisible nowadays, and you have no favours to call in anywhere. And believe me, no one will search for you the way you're searching for _him_." Blair merely shrugs. 

"Have you spoken to your mother?" presses Simon. "You could do with some personal support, you know? You look like death warmed over…"

"She sent me a crystal, sometime way back," replies Blair, absently turning the coffee mug on the table-top. "That was nice of her." Simon sighs again.

"You asked me, a long time ago…" he says, in a soft voice, and Blair looks up swiftly, as if this is the statement he's been waiting for, all this time. 

"You asked me if I'd had instructions," continues Simon; Blair nods, as if in encouragement. "Yeah, I'd had instructions. I got a call, right in the middle of all the PD searches we were doing. More than that; it was a direct order. It came from high up, Blair. High, high up, believe me. I didn't like it, but there was no way out."

"For your friend? Nothing you could have done?" Blair's voice is pitying rather than angry; Simon guesses all the anger, towards him at least, was reasoned away months ago. Blair is still speaking:

"He would have done anything for you, you know?" Simon nods.

"Yeah, I know that. But I have a son, Blair. That's a danger I couldn't afford, not even for Jim; not even for you."

Blair looks at him for a very long time then, without another word, gets up from the table and walks away.

~ ~ ~

The funeral is on a grey day, but at least there is no rain. The PD is out in all its sombre finery, and rifles are fired into the air, a custom Blair has never been able to fathom. He's waiting in the lee of some cypress trees a distance away, and sees the whole performance; Major Crime Department looking uneasy and embarrassed, the Commissioner speaking quiet words to the Ellison family, then checking his watch and quickly winding the proceedings up, the Ellisons themselves ramrod stiff by the graveside. 

Eventually, everyone has drifted off to their cars and Blair can walk over to the grave, peering down at the covering of earth. Some workmen are hanging around in the background, no doubt waiting for him to finish with his personal tribute. But to Blair, this is just part of his investigation; he stares downwards, knowing in his heart that the remains in that wooden box are not Jim Ellison's. Knowing that it's up to him to keep Jim's memory alive, until the world turns enough for Jim to be free again. Blair will not give up; he promises this to Jim, who is not in that hole in the ground.

A cough startles him, and he turns quickly to see Steven Ellison standing a few yards away from him.

"How are you, Blair?" asks Jim's brother.

"Just fine, thanks," says Blair. "You?" Steven walks closer to stand beside Blair. He, too, looks down into the grave.

"You don’t believe he's in there, do you?" he asks Blair, without looking up.

"What do you believe?" replies Blair, unmoved. Steven turns to him then.

"I believe that there are some things we can’t fight, Blair. I believe there are some things we should just let go. You're a good guy, I know that, and you were a good friend to Jim. Mostly. But those days are gone now. In my opinion, you need to forget it all. It’ll do no good to hang on to things. Jim's gone, and you need to accept that, like we have."

"You'd give up on him? Just like that? You’re his family!"

"And you aren’t," says Steven, his expression hardening. "So we'd appreciate it if you stayed well away from us in future, and from the memory of my brother." He turns and walks away, then pauses, and turns again to face Blair, who is still staring into the grave.

"Take care of yourself, Blair. I wish you well, you know?"

Blair steps neatly to the side of the grave and walks away in the opposite direction.

~ ~ ~

South America turns out to be a good option for a fresh start, as do the many non-governmental organisations there which don’t seem to care about his chequered past. Indeed, to some, it's a definite selling point, giving him some strong, anti-establishment credibility. He's had a string of jobs, by now, mainly working with displaced indigenous people and their property rights. And helping to fight for their legal protection has meant he's been moving between a number of Amazonian countries, setting up a temporary home each time. 

It's worthwhile work, with a real sense of achievement when things go well, even though things often don’t go well at all. This new fight gives his life an outward purpose once again.

Inwardly, the old fight remains. Long ago, he set up a website called _'Find Jim Ellison'_ , and although it gets him targeted by all sorts of weirdos and their related abuse, nevertheless it keeps his search alive. Odd little tidbits might come his way every once in a while. He never knows whether they are deliberate feeds from somewhere to keep him on a string, or bullshit posts, or possible kosher sightings, but he doesn't care too much. Anything is of interest.

The website has gone through a number of versions by now, having been hacked from time to time and had its service withdrawn occasionally, too. Each time, he sets it up again, and again the weirdos, and the people with the tinfoil hats, and the sad and lonely type their messages. Amazingly, it’s helped track a few other people who were lost out there for other reasons. That's nice, but it's no cigar. 

He has no personal details on the site, though anyone who knew his story could easily work them out. And the people who took Jim away all that time ago could quickly find him by tracking the digital footprint he leaves, even if they don't bother to do so by any other means. No one does, though. He's left in peace to carry on his one-man digital crusade and, pretty much on automatic pilot, he otherwise draws maps, and takes witness statements, and composes reasoned, persuasive letters to politicians, and speaks with real empathy to those who have lost their homes and their ways of life. For after all, Blair, too, has lost his home and his way of life.

This afternoon, he is back in the office, completing a report. His employers have the ground floor of a gracious nineteenth-century building on a busy square, and its big windows allow a view onto life outside. The spring sunshine is bright, and people are casting sharp shadows as they hurry across the flagstones, and dodge out of the way of the traffic.

Blair doesn't usually do much wool-gathering while he's in the office. He can lose himself in the work quite easily. This afternoon, though, he finds his eyes drawn to that sunny square and the flashes of colour. He puts his pen down, stretches, and gets up to gaze out of the window at his fellow-citizens in this current adopted country.

Something catches his eye. It's a shape; a shadow, in fact, but there's something about that shadow as it flickers amongst the throng of people who are waiting to cross the road. Oh, there is something about that shape that wrenches at a part of his memory. He holds his breath; there is a buzzing in his ears that has nothing to do with the ancient air-conditioning system in the office. His eyes scan the mass of people, searching, searching….

A man has pushed through the crowd and is walking purposefully – hurriedly, in fact – toward Blair's office. It doesn't matter what clothes the man is wearing; the twist of his body, the breadth of his shoulders, the elegance of his stride are all instantly recognisable. Recognisable, too, is the way the man's head moves as he logs every element of the environment around him. Yes, there have been changes – time does that, and Blair has changed, too - but they are only superficial. What remains beneath is as it always was.

Blair grabs at the door-handle, and it helps to keep him upright. His breathing feels laboured and his heart is making great leaps. Then he is outside on the flagstones, brightly lit in the sunshine, and the man breaks into a run towards him. Blair holds out his arms.

"No," he says, anticipating the question, and he knows the man can hear his reply, even at this distance. "No, I could never forget you. Not in a million years."

_~fin~_


End file.
